Blood Screaming
by Earwax
Summary: What if Spike, not Fred, had been infected with Illyria?
1. A Hole in the World

**Author's Notes: **Originally meant to be a drabble one-shot. It's still a one-shot, but it's a bit long to be considered a drabble.

**Blood Screaming**

**(An Angel Fic)**

It was the poof's fault, really. The entire argument had started because he refused to admit the obvious. Well, if Angel wanted to be a stubborn arse like he always was, that was fine with Spike. Angel could just sit in his big, comfy leather chair and continue being an idiot and - oh, who was he kidding? What person in his right mind would think that astronauts would win over cavemen? It didn't make bloody sense! But would Angel listen to reason? No! They had argued about it for over forty minutes and Angel still refused to accept defeat and realize the simple truth: cavemen were superior to astronauts.

Frustrated, Spike had finally had enough of his Sire's bull and stormed out of his office. He had told himself he was going to be mature about the situation and just forget about the argument and move on with his unlife. Spike had been committed to that idea for a total of three minutes before he had begun pitching his cavemen vs. astronauts question to anyone who would listen. To his immense satisfaction, cavemen seemed to be the more popular choice.

Spike had finally worked his way down to the mysteriously empty science department in which only Fred and Knox seemed to be working. Or whispering over a creepy box, whatever. Why was that thing even in the science department? Shouldn't it have been in Ancient Relics? He'd have to remember to ask them that after they finished the more important discussion.

"C'mon, Fred, who would win: cavemen or astronauts?"

"It depends, Spike."

"On what?"

"Weapons."

"I told you, the astronauts don't get weapons."

"Look if the caveman have fire, than the astronauts need laser guns. Like in _Star Wars._"

"I think you mean light sabers, luv."

"Oh, well, that's not the point." She blushed, embarrassed that she had not known the proper term. "If the astronauts don't have weapons why do the cavemen get fire? It puts the astronauts at an unfair disadvantage! If both groups can't fight on even ground, than the entire argument falls apart."

"But," said Knox, "if the astronauts are so smart why would they need weapons? Wouldn't their sneakiness make them equal to the cavemen's brawn and, therefore, not disadvantaged?"

"Exactly my point!" exclaimed Spike. "Whaddaya say to that?"

"They need weapons because - oh, you two! I refuse to think about this. We have to get back to work."

"Work?" Spike grinned, walking over to the nearby sarcophagus. "You mean this giant box? Nice to see you guys are stretching the budget."

"She's right," said Knox. "Spike, you should go."

"In a minute," he mumbled, running his hands over the jewels embedded in the ancient coffin. "How much do you reckon these are worth?"

"Spike, back away..."

Before the vampire could ask why Knox was so in love with the stupid box, one of the crystals on it opened and blew a gust of air into Spike's face. He stepped back, gasping and coughing.

"I told you!" exclaimed Knox.

Fred was slightly more concerned. "Are you alright?" she asked.

He flashed her his most charming smile. "Sure, luv, it takes more than some mummy dust to get me down. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find the poof."

Ten minutes later

Angel couldn't take it anymore. Spike was driving him insane. And it wasn't just the constant insubordination or the fact he kept selling Angel's personal cars for blood money. Spike was too much of a distraction. Angel had a law firm to run, he couldn't afford to be bothered every half hour or so by his irksome Childe demanding to know why his Sire's unlife was much better than his own. Or who was better: Batman or Superman? Or whining about who would win the cavemen vs. astronauts battle. Honestly, who cared? Everyone knew that Batman was better than Superman and that astronauts could take cavemen any day of the week. Just because Spike always felt that he had to contradict everything Angel said - dammit! Spike was distracting him again and he wasn't even in the room!

Angel had to get rid of him. He had the resources of Wolfram & Hart literally at his fingertips. He could send Spike anywhere in the world. Dump him in Mongolia or some place like that. Of course, he couldn't make it sound like he wanted to get rid of Spike, his Childe would whine and refuse to leave if that was the case. Angel had to make it sound like he was doing Spike a favor. Treating him to a permanent, exotic trip. Call it a job and send him on his merry way. Yeah, that could work. First, he would have to have Harmony track him down and...

"Alright, Angel, the votes are in..." said Spike, waltzing into his Sire's office.

Scratch that last thought. Spike had found him on his own. Was the half hour up already?

"...cavemen win hands down."

Whatever thoughts Angel had about having an adult discussion with Spike vanished with that one sentence.

"What do you mean 'hands down'?" demanded Angel, getting up from his desk and marching over to the younger vampire.

"Accounting agrees with me."

"Did you buy them booze?"

"Well, that's mature, Angelus! Admit it, I'm right, you're wrong!"

"Just because you have something against evolution and the progression of man as the dominant species..."

"Typical, seeing what you want to see! Never getting the big picture!"

"Hey, I can see the big picture! I'm a big picture see-er!"

"Whatever gets you through the day."

"Hey, what gets me through the day is… Spike?"

The younger vampire's annoyed face suddenly looked troubled, sickly. His seemed to stare past Angel rather than at him.

"Spike?" Angel repeated carefully.

Spike attempted to answer his Sire, no doubt to throw out another insult. As soon as the younger vampire moved his lips, he began to cough. Blood poured from his mouth and he began to sway on his feet. Moving quickly, Angel caught his Childe before he hit the ground. His concern became genuine fear when Spike started to convulse.

Three hours later

"It's called Illyria," said Wesley, "a great monarch and warrior of the demon age murdered by rivals and left adrift in the Deeper Well."

"Which is what?" asked Angel, perhaps a bit too harshly. He was painfully aware that they were pressed for time. The more time they wasted, the sicker Spike got. The demon inside Angel was ready to kill something. It screamed for vengeance and Angel was inclined to support that.

"A burial ground," explained Wesley, "a resting place of all the remaining old ones."

"This one ain't resting," remarked Gunn.

Angel suppressed an urge to hit him. He appreciated a quip in the face of peril as much as the next guy, but this one was not funny!

" No. I don't think this is merely an infection," stated Wesley. "Spike's skin is hardening like a shell. I think he's being hollowed out so this thing can use him to gestate, to claw its way back into the world. That's speculation. Either way, his soul, or essence, if you prefer, will be completely destroyed."

_Completely destroyed,_ thought Angel desperately. _Gone, as in no way to get him back._ Okay, now Gunn's quip was even less funny.

"Do we have any chance of finding this Deeper Well?" he asked.

"I already have," supplied Wesley. "It's in England, in the Cotswolds."

"Good, we'll prepare a jet..."

"Boss, thank God I found you!" exclaimed Harmony, running into the room. "It's Spike, he's in your office and..."

"What's he doing in my office?" Angel growled. "Why isn't he in Medical?" Honestly, Spike was like a small child. If he wasn't properly monitered he wandered off.

Harmony took a step back and nervously raised her hands. "Hey, Boss, I swear I don't know. But, if it helps, he doesn't look so hot..."

Angel didn't hear her finish that sentence. He was already speeding out of Wesley's office and towards his own.

Three minutes later

Where the Hell was the poof's liquor stash? Every office had one and Angel was the C.E.O. and a Mick besides. There was no way his private pocket of Hell Incorporated would be booze free. There had to be some alcohol somewhere! Spike stumbled and grabbed hold of Angel's desk. He couldn't even walk straight, why the Hell did he even leave his comfy hospital bed? Angel would have come back eventually... _No_, Spike amended, _I don't care about Angel, I care about his whiskey. I didn't leave to find Angel, I left to raid his private stash. Now, all I have to do is find it._

God, he was dizzy. Everything was spinning and painful. He entire body ached and it burned with an impossible fever. Spike felt genuinely sick, like he had the flu. He hadn't had influenza since he was nineteen. He had to lie down. And that couch was all the way across the room.

"Spike!" a voice exclaimed. "What the Hell are you doing?" It was Angel. He sounded angry. And concerned. Goodie.

"I was looking for a drink, Peaches," Spike smiled. "Just a drink."

Angel stormed over to him. "You should be in bed!"

"I should be alotta things." _Don't fall over,_ he ordered himself, trying desperately not to show Angel just how much he needed his desk.

"You need to go back to Medical."

"I need a drink."

"What you need is to be in bed!"

God, Angel was so annoying when he was in Sire mode. Of course, he always was in Sire mode. Stupid ponce always had to be in control, always had to know best. "I know what I need, Peaches, and that's a drink."

"Spike, you're not well..."

"I think I'm aware of that!" Spike exploded. "I can barely walk, you stupid git!"

"Which is why you should be in bed."

"I'm not a bloody child, Angelus. I - dammit!" Spike's legs buckled out from under him and he fell towards his Sire. Angel caught him easily.

"C'mon, Spike, let's get you out of here."

The younger vampire was suddenly too tired to respond. He nodded his head, and, leaning heavily on his Sire, they left the office. Wesley was waiting outside. Spike thought he heard Angel mention something to him about not being able to go to England, but he must have heard wrong. There was no reason why they'd be going to the Motherland. They weren't fans of Manchester United.

God, he felt like his body was being digested. Maybe his brain was frying.

One hour later

Angel had taken Spike to his penthouse. He couldn't leave Spike in the infirmary and there was no way he was going to let his Childe go back to that rat-infested apartment of his. Strangely, Spike hadn't protested. He wasn't talking, which was just plain unnatural for him. It hurt Angel to see Spike like this. What hurt his more was that he could do nothing to save him from the demon currently liquefying his insides. He would most likely lose Spike like he had lost Cordy and that thought made Angel very angry. After Cordy had died, Angel had vowed to protect what was left of his family. Fine job he was doing so far.

Looking at Spike lying prostrate on his bed, just staring at the ceiling, Angel knew had to say something, anything. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since he had attempted to explain to Spike the truth about his "infection" over an hour ago. Try as he might, Angel couldn't find it in himself to tell Spike that his very essence was going to be obliterated. He had softened the story by replacing words like "destroyed" to words like "possessed" and "dead."

He didn't think Spike quite believed him.

"Do you want me to call her?"

"Who? Fred?"

"No, Buffy."

"How noble of you, Peaches! It must have taken a lot for you to bring up the B-word." He paused, his curious smile dissolving into a slight frown. "Buffy never loved me. She told me she did, but she lied."

Angel knew this already, but didn't want to hurt Spike further by agreeing to it. He remained silent.

"Let me tell you a story, Peaches. I had a cat once. I called him Lord Byron. After the poet, see? Yeah, well, when that cat died, I cried. I was seventeen years old and I cried over that mangy animal like a nancy boy. I loved that cat and I cried for it. Buffy never cried for me, not even at the end. Her eyes got all watery, but she didn't cry. She couldn't, see, because she didn't love me."

"I'm sure she cared about you," said Angel, trying to comfort his Childe.

"But not enough to cry for me! I loved her, ya know. I would have done anything for her, but did she care? No! She gave me her body, but it didn't matter because every time I screwed her she was thinking of you! She'd scream my name, but I knew yours was lurking just underneath the surface. I was just convenient!"

"I'm sorry," Angel whispered. He meant it, too. He pitied his Childe. All Spike ever wanted was the love of a beautiful woman. And that was the one thing he had never gotten as a human or a vampire. Unless he counted Drusilla, but a demon's love was always tainted. Spike had wanted pure love, true love, the crap that Disney movies were made of. And he had never gotten it. Not with Cecily, not with Dru and certainly not with Buffy.

"Yeah, you're sorry!" Spike ranted. "You're never anything but sorry!" Tears began to spill from his eyes. "Stupid poof."

"You don't want to see her?"

"Desperately, but what would I say to her? Guess what, luv? I fried, but got over it. I've been back for months and didn't tell you. Sorry 'bout that. Now I'm dying again and want some company. Come quick. No, Peaches. I've said everything I needed to say to her. Buffy means so much to me, but she's such a small part of it. A sliver of my unlife. Now, Dru, she was the whole pie. I spent so much time with her. I vowed to be her knight, to protect her for all eternity. Now, I don't even know if she's alive."

Angel didn't know either. For some reason, that bothered him. "Dru can take care of herself."

"What if she doesn't want to anymore? You know she doesn't like to be alone. Could've gone out during the day and - oh, God."

Considering they hadn't heard from her in years, that was probably what had happened. Not that he was going to tell Spike that. His boy shouldn't have to hear that now. "I'm sure she's fine."

"You're lying, Angelus."

Inwardly, Angel swore. Spike was always good at picking through the lies. Years of living with Angelus had taught him well. He had forgotten how well. "Try to get some rest."

"I'll rest when I'm dead."

"Don't say that. Gunn and Wesley are on their way to Europe right now. And Fred's working in her lab. They're going to find a cure."

"You don't believe that."

"Yes, I do."

"Then why are you here, _Sire_? If I'm gonna be fine and dandy, why even bother with the bedside manner?" He spat out the word "sire" as if it were poisoned blood. It bothered Angel that Spike continually used that affectionate term derogatively, not that he was going to tell him that.

"Someone's gotta look out for you," Angel said neutrally.

"You're the only one left to do that, Peaches. You're the only one left who gives a damn. That's irony for ya. You were there at the beginning. Might as well be there at the end. Funny, I never thought it'd end like this."

Angel noticed that Spike was starting to shake. Suddenly he sat up in bed and backed up against the headboard. "I'm sorry!" he shouted, clearly panicked. "I'm sorry I was hungry! Don't cane me, Father! I'm sorry! I won't do it again! I promise! Stop! Stop!"

Angel knew Spike's father had beaten him. He had mentioned it offhandedly shortly after he had been turned. Angelus had thought nothing of it. His own father had tanned his hide more than once. I hadn't bothered him then, but now, hearing Spike cry like that, lost in some delusion, it was almost more than the older vampire could bear.

"Spike, calm down! Your father's dead! He can't hurt you anymore! Will, you're safe here!" Not knowing what else to do, Angel moved onto the bed and put his arms around Spike; something he hadn't done since an unfortunate mob incident in a French province in 1883. "You're safe."

Spike relaxed slightly, curling up against his Sire. His lucidity was returning, but he could not, or would not, stop writhing. "You're cool, Angelus. I'm not. My skin is on fire. I'm burning, Angel. Burning for my sins. How come you don't get to burn?"

Spike fell asleep shortly after that. It wasn't a peaceful slumber. Spike twitched perpetually and, every few minutes or so, he would let out a low moan. Occasionally, he would mumble obscenities and names. He'd whisper for his Mum, for Dru, for Buffy. Angel heard his own name mentioned more than once. Odd thing was, Spike, more often than not, would ask for Angelus. That didn't surprise Angel, though it made him feel somewhat jealous. That in itself didn't make much sense, because he and Angelus were technically the same person. Angelus was the one who raised Will, after all. Treated him better than his own father. Why shouldn't he ask for him?

Angelus had never beaten Will. They had gotten into fights, surely. Vampire families couldn't help but fight with one another. Demons weren't known for being civil. Words were said, punches were thrown. That was normal. Normal for them, anyway. Frequently, Angelus would act like a proper Sire and discipline his Childe with harsh words and occasional blows, but he had never beaten him into submission. That wasn't his style. Angelus had preferred to play mind games with Spike. Those were more fun than any brawl.

Of course, Spike loved a good brawl, especially with his Sire. At times, Angelus was convinced that Spike acted unruly just to get a rise out of him; to get a decent fight started. Spike had never won one, not until a few months ago with that stupid fake Cup of Perpetual Torment. Simply put, Spike had kicked his ass. Angel might have been proud if he hadn't been so mind-numbingly angry with his stupid Childe. Good thing that cup had been a fake.

"What time is it?" asked Spike, reluctantly opening his eyes.

"You were only out for about an hour."

"I'm gonna miss that hour. Should the room be this bright?"

"I could turn off the lights if you want." Angel moved to get up, but Spike weakly grabbed his arm.

"The light hurts my eyes. I don't like it. It hurts my eyes, but don't turn it off. The pain tells me I'm still here." He sighed. "I guess you don't need to worry 'bout that prophecy anymore. If I'm not around..."

Now what was he talking about? Oh, the Shanshu. Angel honestly hadn't thought about it. Not since Spike had collapsed. "Don't talk like that," Angel whispered.

"Why not? Can't talk about much else."

"It's just a prophecy. Probably fake."

"Lying again."

"Dammit, Spike! I don't care about the prophecy. I care about you!" _I'd give up my humanity if it would save you, _Angel realized silently. Where did that come from? Surely, Spike didn't mean _that_ much to him. Did he?

"That's nice," mumbled Spike. "Not lying now."

Five hours later

"I know what love is, Angelus. Love is blood screaming. It screamed for Dru, it screamed for Buffy. God, how it screamed for Buffy! It screamed for you once. How drunk do you think we were that night, Peaches? I still don't remember how we ended up in that barn."

Angel forced a smile. "Something about a leprechaun."

"Right," Spike chuckled into Angel's chest. "A leprechaun." He looked up at his Sire and their eyes met. "Would you have loved me?"

"What?"

He smiled at Angel's confusion. "Not like that, Peaches," Spike whispered, shaking his head. "Would you have loved me as your Childe, your friend, even your equal? Would you have stopped hating me?"

"I never hated you, Spike. I said I did, but if that was true I would have staked you. I never could stake you. I..." Angel broke off, painfully aware of the tears coursing down his cheeks.

Spike grinned. "Well, bugger, Peaches, maybe you do love me, after all." The smile vanished when Spike was overtaken by another coughing fit. When that had subsided, he asked: "Will you leave me, Angel? Leave me like the others?"

He sounded so vulnerable.

"No, Spike, I won't leave you," Angel said, gently kissing Spike's forehead. He tried not to think about how leathery the skin felt or how the unnatural heat from it burned his lips.

"You left before."

"I got a soul."

"And when you lost it, you weren't right. She made you go insane, ya know. Not the soul, just her."

"Buffy?"

"Who else? She drove me insane, too. Insane enough to make me go and get a bleedin' soul. I should have gone to you, not her. She didn't know. She couldn't know about the pain. All o' that blood, all o' that screaming..." He paused. "I'm not scared, ya know."

Now Spike was the one who was lying.

"I've been through worse things than the monster flu."

"I know." He noted that Spike was panting. Not a good sign for someone who didn't need to breathe.

"Oh, bugger, Angelus! I don't want to die. Not again."

Angel didn't want the younger vampire to die either. Funny how a just few months ago he hadn't cared all that much when Buffy had told him Spike had died in Sunnydale. There had almost been a feeling of relief mingled with the vague sadness and regret. His boy had been dead and he couldn't say that had pained him. It was the memories that hurt the most. Not the recent ones, but the old ones in which he had traveled Europe with a young Fledge called William. Angelus had taught him everything he knew and the young William had learned it all. On some level, Spike was like a son to him, or an annoying brother. Of course, that was what a Childe was to his Sire; a son, a brother, a student, a companion, a friend, a rival, even a lover.

Despite their connection and history, Angel hadn't really mourned Spike's first passing. Spike was William and William had been in the past with Angelus. He was a memory. Both painful and wonderful, but still nothing to get worked up over. That was before. That was before an ensouled Spike had popped out of that stupid amulet and gotten stranded at Wolfram & Hart. That was before Spike had begun to imbed himself into Angel's already hectic life. That was before they had begun to strengthen their weakened blood bond and remind themselves what they had been to each other so many years ago.

It was kind of like old times. Except they weren't evil and they were helping people instead of eating them. He didn't want to lose Spike again. Not to the sun, not to a stake or a crazy Slayer. Not to Illyria. Not to anyone or anything. Of course, what Angel wanted didn't matter. Spike was going to die. Plain and simple. And, unlike his feelings on the subject several months ago, Angel was already grieving with intensity he hadn't felt since he had given up Connor.

"Just keep fighting," Angel begged. "Please, Will, just keep fighting."

"I can't, Sire," said Spike, his voice breaking. "I can't."

His body was shaking. The convulsions had started again. Angel held him tighter. "Please try." He couldn't lose Spike. Not now. He had lost so many people already and to lose another Childe - Angel didn't know if he could deal with it.

"It hurts, Angel. Make it stop!"

Frantically, Angel untangled himself from Spike, reached over to the bedside table and unwrapped a syringe filled with morphine. He had been told to only use it when Spike's pain was the greatest and his Childe must have been in terrible pain to admit it. He tried to inject Spike, but the needle refused to penetrate his skin.

"I, I can't," Angel muttered helplessly.

"You're my Sire, it's you're job! Do something! Be Angelus before Romania! Be Liam on a drinking binge. Be Angel whining about your poofy hair! Just be something! Be Yoda, dammit! Be Yoda!"

The demon inside Angel was in pain. No, it was the man. No, it was both. Both wanted to protect Spike. Save him from Illyria. Save everything that Spike was. But it was hopeless. Angel knew he couldn't save him. But he was supposed to. That's what Sires did for their Childer. They protected what was theirs. He should have been able to. Why not now? _Why not now?_

"Alright, Spike," Angel said, his own voice cracking, "I'll be Yoda."

"No!" he shouted. Pushing his Sire off the bed with a strength that Angel had thought he no longer possessed, Spike again moved toward the headboard. "You can't take me! I won't let you! Not now! I beat Pavayne, I can beat you!"

Angel was by his Childe's side in an instant. "Spike, calm down!" He reached for his hand, but Spike pushed his arm away. Angel settled for sitting at the edge of the bed.

"He's with me! He's with me, dammit! He won't let you take me!"

"I can't stop them, Will."

And what he said next nearly broke Angel's heart:

"Then you're not my Yoda. Cavemen win, Angelus. Cavemen always win. Oh, God!" he screamed. The convulsions were becoming more violent. "Stop it!"

Angel tentatively reached over to Spike, hoping that his Childe wouldn't push him away again. Mercifully, he didn't. "Shh, Will," Angel soothed, embracing the younger vampire. "Shh."

"I'm sorry," Spike babbled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"For what, Childe?" Angel asked softly.

"I don't wanna go, Sire," he sobbed. "Don't let them take me!"

Angel's dead heart seemed to constrict in his chest. He could feel Illyria claiming him. The demon in Angel screamed and raged possessively, _Mine, mine, mine. Not yours. Never yours. Mine, mine, mine! _The human felt pure terror. _Not him. Not now._

"No, Spike, you have to fight! Do you here me? You don't even have to talk, just concentrate on fighting."

"I'm not scared. I'm not."

"Hold on, dammit!"

"Oh, God, Angel, why can't I stay?"

At once, Spike's seizure subsided and he went limp in Angel's arms. It was then he realized that his boy was no longer blinking. "Please, Will..." he begged. Crying, he hugged Spike against himself. "Please..."

Spike began to twitch again. He pushed his body so hard away from Angel's that his Sire was thrown across the room. For a brief instant, Angel hoped that Spike was merely having another fit, that Illyria hadn't claimed him. That hope was extinguished when he saw Spike tumble off the bed. Angel watched in horror as Spike's body continued to convulse and change. When his Childe finally stood up, his hair and the sides of his face were blue. His eyes, usually so vibrant and expressive, were cold and resembled chips of ice.

Curiously, those large chips of ice examined Spike's arm and flexed Spike's fingers. When it spoke, Illyria's cruel, deep voice sounded nothing like his Childe's.

"This will do."


	2. Shells

**Author's Note: **I really wasn't planning on adding to this, but I got all that feedback and I began to feel that I should. I never dreamed I'd get such a positive response from you guys. I really appreciate it. Thanks! Well, anyway, here's part two. Sorry it took so long. Also, I lifted so much Illyria dialogue from 'Shells' that I kind of feel like a plagiarist.

xxxxx

"Illyria?"

"My name," it muttered angrily, moving towards Angel. "You would presume to speak my name. Because I have returned in the body of this half-breed, you think you can speak to me. It's disgusting. I thought the humans and the half-breeds would have long died out by now. Instead, you've grown bold."

Angel said nothing to this creature's tirade. He felt so much pain, so much rage. There was no Spike. Not anymore. All that was left was this demon god that had gutted his Childe from the inside out like some goddamn fish. It took all of Angel's self control to not blindly attack the thing now standing before him. The demon in him screamed for blood, but Angel knew how foolish it would be to strike something as powerful as Illyria. He almost didn't care.

Illyria gave further indication whether or not Angel was still worthy of its notice. Instead, it turned away from him and again examined his Childe's body. "Spike is the name of shell I'm in."

"Don't call him that!" Angel snarled, barely suppressing his demon face.

Illyria glanced disgustingly in his direction. "This is grief. I'm watching grief. It is like offal in my mouth."

Illyria gave off no scent, even from this distance. There should have been a scent, but there was none. It was unnatural, unsettling. It was like there was nothing where Illyria now stood. It served to further prove that Spike was gone. Still, Angel clung to a hope, a small hope that somehow -

"There is nothing in this world but grief," Angel whispered, walking slowly over to Illyria. "The humans stink of it. They excrete it from every pore of their being. They cry. They sweat. They bleed. They feel. They can't help it. If you remain here, you'll taste it every day." Another step. His lips were almost on Spike's ear - no, Illyria's ear now. "You could leave. Leave this shell. Return when they are gone."

Swiftly, Illyria turned around. "You seek to save what's rotted through. This carcass is bound to me. I could not change that if I cared to, but you have opened my eyes to truth. If the world is truly overrun by humans" - Illyria put his hand on Angel's chest and effortlessly threw him across the room - "then I have work to do."

10 minutes later

"Okay, see ya soon," said Fred dejectedly, hanging up the cell phone. "That was Wes and Gunn. They're coming back now."

Knox looked up from his microscope. "Any news on Spike's condition?"

"Nothing," cried Fred, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "There's nothing."

"Hey, hey, Fred," said Knox, walking up to her and giving her a hug. "Don't cry, we'll find a way - "

"No! You know as well as I do that England was our last shot. Spike - he's, he's as good as dead now."

Fred hadn't known Spike that long, but she considered him a friend. A good friend. A good soul. It had taken her a while to convince the others what she knew from her first meeting with him, but she had done it. Her friends had finally seen what Spike was. They saw that he was like Angel, a champion. They had accepted him into their circle. They had loved him. Well, at least she had. At least Angel had.

"You don't know that."

Gently, she pushed Knox away from her. "Yes, I do. I'm not a little girl, Knox. You don't have to lie to me because you think I can't handle the truth. I'm stronger than that." She paused. "It could have been one of us. I keep thinking about that. If Spike hadn't been here to take the infection, Illyria would have - oh, God! Is it wrong that I'm glad it wasn't us?"

"It wasn't you," muttered Knox.

"Yes, it wasn't me! Is that so wrong that I'm - Knox? Are you even listening?"

"Huh?"

Suddenly, the door burst open and there stood Spike. No, it couldn't be Spike. Spike wasn't blue. _Illyria. _Instinctively, Fred took a step back. She glanced over at Knox, who had an odd grin on his face. That grin scared her even more than Illyria.

Illyria eyed both he and Fred coldly, before quickly turning its attention completely to Knox. "You are the Qwa'ha Xahn."

Knox spoke animatedly, fanatically. "I am your priest. I am your servant. I am your guide in this world." He pulled up his shirt, revealing a small skull protruding from his chest. "I've taken your sacraments and placed them close to my heart according to the ancient ways. That's why you were called to me. We're bound together."

"And her?" said Illyria, gesturing toward Fred. "I am drawn to her as well."

Knox hesitated. "She was to be your vessel, my liege."

"What?" exclaimed Fred. Of all the words she had expected to pop out of Knox's mouth that particular string of letters hadn't even begun to cross her mind. Illyria had been meant for her. Why? Why would Knox plan this for her? And she had let him touch her! She had let him comfort her. She had let a murderer comfort her.

Illyria ignored Fred's outburst. "She appears to be more suitable than the vampire. Why was she replaced with the half-breed?"

"She wasn't. The vampire interfered. I tried to stop him, I really did, but he - "

"Silence! Your incompetence will be addressed later. Right now, we have work to do." Without another word, Illyria ripped off Spike's clothes and pressed its hand on to the sarcophagus. A thick, rubbery substance began to spread over its body. When that substance covered Illyria completely, it hardened into something akin to a body suit.

Knox appeared mesmerized while Fred felt horrified. Her mind could barely process what was happening. Illyria. Spike. Knox. It was too much too fast. She wished Wesley were here. He'd know what to do.

"I'm ready to begin," Illyria stated, waving its hand. "Bring the girl. She could be of use to me."

"You mean I don't have to kill her to prove my loyalty to you, your worshipfulness?" asked Knox. "That's cool." He pried his eyes off Illyria's body suit and turned back to Fred. "C'mon, Fred, it'll be fun. Think of it as a date."

2 hours later

"Always messy when you have to open 'em up," complained Doctor Sparrow, cleaning the last of his instruments and putting them back into the tray. "That's why I prefer the less invasive procedures. Never got used to the sight of blood. Ugh. Still makes me nauseous."

"Then I have a feeling you're not gonna like this conversation," said a voice from the doorway.

"Mr. Angel," greeted Doctor Sparrow cheerfully. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He had the nerve to smile.

"Cut the crap, Doctor," said Angel, walking into his office. "I know you're involved with Illyria."

At the mention of the demon's name, Doctor Sparrow's cordial manner disappeared. "It's taken you a long time to sniff your way back to me. I had expected a man of your semi-intelligence to move much quicker. I suppose you were a little preoccupied..."

"By now you must have heard about Illyria taking Fred and Knox from the lab. You've probably seen the surveillance videos. According to Knox's cell phone, you've called him three times in the last hour. Call me crazy, but I don't think those calls were social."

"They weren't."

"Of course they weren't." Angel grabbed him violently and pushed him into the patient's chair. "Have a seat, Doctor."

"Of course."

Doctor Sparrow was getting worried; Angel could sense it. Cowards never could put up a brave front for long. He must have known about Angelus's exploits. It was all the employees could talk about the first few days after Angel had taken over. Everyone had been so excited. Then they realized they were getting the ensouled version of the Scourge of Europe and they got quieter.

Sparrow's current fear made his heart beat that much quicker, pump his blood that much faster. It was intoxicating, familiar. That fear. He loved causing it, loved how his victims used to beg. It was wrong that Angel was enjoying himself. He found he didn't care.

"Here's how's it's gonna go, Doctor. You're gonna tell me where they went. And you're gonna do it in the next thirty seconds, or I'm gonna start playing with some of your equipment." Angel reached into the nearby tray and picked up a freshly washed blade. "Ah, scalpels. I remember those. See, the trick is to do shallow cuts. Nick the skin, but not deep enough to be fatal. Shallow cuts always hurt the most when you pour oil on 'em. Don't ask me why. In my experience, they just scream louder. There was this one guy I managed to cut over three hundred and twenty times before he begged me to kill him. He was a proud bastard. Ya wanna know what I did when I got to three hundred and twenty one? I asked you a question, Doctor."

Sparrow was beginning to sweat. "What did you do?"

"I moved on to the fingernails. I cut them off and then I went to the more - shall we say - sensitive body parts. I kept him alive for days. He screamed so much that at the end he couldn't even speak. He just screamed and screamed and screamed. It got kinda annoying really. I ripped out his throat just to stop the sound. He called me a bogtrotter."

"What?" croaked Doctor Sparrow.

"Ya know, a bogtrotter. It's a racial slur against the Irish. The guy I killed was English. You know how the English are. I believe the year was 1783. Or was it 1784? One of those years. There've been so many - but that's not the point. I kept that guy alive for the better part of a week because he offended me with a word. Now, I ask you good Doctor, how long do you think I'll keep you alive on account of what you did to Spike?"

Sparrow was really nervous now. He knew Angel wasn't lying. Why would he be? Why would he need to when the truth was so much more shocking? "It wasn't supposed to be him! It was supposed to be - "

"Fred. I know. I gotta tell ya, Doc. Bringing her up really doesn't help your case." He stopped twirling the blade between his fingers and moved the scalpel closer to Sparrow's face. "I usually don't start with the eyeballs, but I'm willing to make an exception."

"Vahla ha'nesh!"

The scalpel stopped moving. "What?" Angel was somewhat disappointed that Sparrow had broken so easily. He must have really hated the sight of blood.

"It's Illyria's temple. It's where they're going. Illyria was supposed to be resurrected there. There is an army. Together, they'll purge the world of this human filth and Illyria will reign supreme."

"That's it? That's all you know?"

"Yes! I swear it!"

Swiftly, Angel plunged the scalpel into Sparrow's neck. "Thanks. You've been a big help."

2 hours later

The half-breed had not ceased to irritate it. He had murdered Illyria's Qwa'ha Xahn, much to the discomfort of his followers. The ooze had followed Illyria through the portal into Vahla ha'nesh. He was following it now. Illyria briefly wondered why it did not destroy the vampire and be done with it. He was a distraction, an insect that needed to be crushed. Still, Illyria had no immediate desire to kill him. He was amusing. Almost as intriguing as the girl, Fred, only more so. This vampire had been with the shell when he died. There had been feelings between the two. Had they been lovers? Perhaps. A word kept echoing in Illyria's head. A word that was not its own, but that of the shell.

Sire.

The vampires' connection to each other did not interest Illyria. The Old One did not care for any relationship other than that of master and slave. It was a waste of energy to be concerned with the half-breed and his shell. They were of no consequence. Soon, the humans would be eradicated. Illyria would take its rightful place as supreme ruler and the fragments of the corpse it wore would trouble it no longer.

"You are too late," Illyria called to the trailing half-breed. "My army will rise. This world will be mine once again."

Illyria had no idea how empty those words were. Not until it reached the nave of its temple and found - nothing. Illyria's army was dead, its statue destroyed. Vahla ha'nesh was in ruins. Nothing remained. Nothing. Pain coursed through it. So much pain! It was uncontrollable, consuming. There was nothing left.

"It cannot be," Illyria gasped. "It's gone." No longer caring about the vampire's presence, Illyria collapsed on to the ground and ran the dust through its hands. "My world is gone."

Illyria did not expect the half-breed to offer words of sympathy, but it did not expect him to whisper what he did.

"You're grieving."

He said no more than that. He did not need to. Illyria understood now. Understood true suffering. The grief between Illyria and the half-breed was the same. They were linked.

Illyria could not continue to haunt its vanished temple. It needed to get out, needed to think. Quicker than the half-breed could process thought, Illyria reopened the portal that would take the Old One back to the place the Qwa'ha Xahn had called a museum. Illyria disappeared through the hole, and, feeling benevolent left it open for the half-breed to follow.

1 hour later

Angel was in Spike's apartment. He had only been in it once before. It was just after Spike had gotten his hands cut off. He had driven Spike home because the younger vampire's grip had been too weak to clutch the wheel.

The apartment smelled like cigarettes and peroxide. It smelled like Spike. There was no trace of him in Illyria, but here he was everywhere. There were his clothes in the drawers, his blood in the fridge. He had a baseball bat for whatever reason. He had hated baseball. Claimed it distracted people from Manchester United. He probably just had the bat to smash things. Spike had liked to smash things. Hyperactive idiot that he had been.

Angel didn't know why he was here. There was nothing left. Just an echo and a fading scent. He missed him. He didn't think it would hurt this much, but it did. Spike had been - Angel didn't know exactly. They had been connected by blood. There was no connection now. There was no screaming. There was nothing but the emptiness. Nothing but Illyria. He wanted to kill the god. Wipe Illyria from the face of the earth; to stop seeing Spike in that thing's face. He hated looking into Illyria's ice eyes and wondering why they didn't sparkle. Spike was gone. There was nothing left but a body and a god that manipulated it like a puppet.

Just like Cordy.

Angel closed his eyes. He couldn't think about her. He couldn't compare the two. He might start to lose it if he did. Blood. He needed blood. Needed to soak himself in it. Needed to forget. Killing Sparrow and Knox hadn't been enough. It hadn't been nearly enough. They had gone too quickly. Angel had wanted to drag their deaths out. Make them feel a fraction of what he now felt.

Fred had been the most shocked when the bullet had hit Knox's stomach. Her eyes had gotten all wide and she had put her hand over her mouth. She hadn't expected him to do it.

Gunn had called it an "Angelus moment." It wasn't. Angelus wouldn't have used guns. Knives. He would have used knives.

Wesley had called him "unreasonable." Of course he was being unreasonable. Spike was dead. What use did he have for reason? And where did Wesley get off questioning his mental health? Unlike a certain ex-watcher, Angel didn't leave revolvers just lying around in office drawers. If that wasn't unreasonably paranoid and creepy, he didn't know what was.

It should have been Fred. Angel was glad it hadn't been, but it should have been her.

No Fred.

No Spike.

Which was worse?

It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.

There was no Spike now. No William. No Childe. No blood.

Hollow. Angel felt hollow.

In a way, it was Gunn's fault. He was the one who had signed the custom papers that had allowed Illyria's sarcophagus to enter Wolfram & Hart. Yes, Angel knew about that. He couldn't hate Gunn for it. Couldn't hurt him. Wanted to, but couldn't. Gunn had just been doing his job. He wouldn't have even had that job if it hadn't been for Angel's deal with Wolfram & Hart. Angel's interference. He had done it because of Connor. He had done it to save him. Was Spike the price? His Childe's life for the life of his son?

It was Angel's fault, more than anyone else's, that Spike was dead. He killed him just as surely as if he had driven a pool stick through his heart.

There was an empty mug resting on the coffee table. Curiously, Angel picked it up. _World's #1 Boss_ was written on the front of it. He was wondered what had happened to that cup. Spike must have nicked it from him when Angel wasn't looking. Spike always had been a bit of a klepto.

Rage suddenly filled Angel. He hated that cup. Hated the stupid, happy, bubble letters. Hated the chipped handle. Hated how the cup still had some blood in it. Hated how, on that cup, Spike's scent was mingled with Angel's.

"You grieve still. For a single life."

Angel gritted his teeth together. _Illyria. _It must have tracked him here. Angel balled one of his fists together, the one not clutching that damned mug. The fingernails broke the skin. "Get out."

Illyria ignored him and walked in. "This place was part of the shell."

"Don't call him that!" Angel growled, hating that cold, emotionless voice. Hating the stiff, jerky way the demon moved. Hating that it wasn't Spike. "He had a name."

"He had many names. The first was William. You were a part of him. You were part of the shell."

"Stop calling him that!" Angel snarled.

Again, Illyria ignored him. "He cannot return to you. Yet, there are fragments. When his brain collapsed, electrical spasms channeled into my function system - memories." Illyria held up its hand, making a gap between its thumb and index finger. A blue spark formed between those two fingers. In Spike's voice, Illyria repeated his Childe's last words. "Oh God, Angel, why can't I stay?"

"Stop it!" Angel erupted, throwing the cup he was still holding at Illyria. The god caught it easily and crushed it to dust.

"You presume to think you could do me harm?" Illyria sounded more amused than anything else.

"Get out!"

"I've nowhere to go. My kingdom is long dead." It sounded almost regretful. "Long dead. There's so much I don't understand. I've become overwhelmed. I'm unsure of my place."

"Forgive me if your problems don't encourage my sympathy."

"I exist here. I must learn to walk in this world. I'll need your help, Angel."

Illyria uttering his name only served to further enrage him. He had no desire to play Sire to a demon wearing Spike's face. "Go find someone else to be your little lapdog!"

"There are women. They are not here. You are all that is left. You killed my Qwa'ha Xahn."

"He destroyed what was mine."

"And that made it just?"

"Yes."

Illyria smiled slightly. "You will help me. You will help me because I look like him. Is it true what you said before? Is there anything in this life but grief?"

Angel thought of Spike's defiance. He thought of Connor's anger and Buffy's love. He remembered Cordy's smile and how it would brighten a room. He remembered how they had given him joy. They had been his hope. They had been his world. They had been his everything. He remembered how they were gone. He remembered how he now felt hollow.

"There is nothing in this life but grief."

"That is not enough to live by."

"No," Angel agreed, "it's just enough to survive."


	3. Underneath

Author's Note: Here's another chapter I swore I would never write, but did anyway. Some dialogue is lifted from 'Underneath'.

xxxxx

Angel was in Spike's bed. He'd been lying in that bed for the better part of a week. The scent of his Childe was greatest there and some part of Angel - an unhealthy part - needed to wallow in it, need to soak up the essence before it faded away completely.

Wesley had come over Monday. He had been concerned when Angel hadn't shown up for work and he'd mentioned something about bringing Lindsey back from a Hell dimension, but whatever. Angel hadn't been paying attention. He might have denounced the entire meeting as a dream if Fred hadn't been with him. Angel remembered how she and Wes had been holding hands and giving each other worried looks peppered with sexual tension. It didn't seem fair that they should be so happy while he was so miserable. They had left in hurry; probably went off to fuck like rabbits back at Wes's place. Either that or they had wanted to escape Illyria. At first glance, the Old One was rather intimidating.

The demon god hadn't left Spike's room, either. Like Angel, it was content to stay where it was, no doubt pondering the disease that was humanity or whatever it was that demon gods pondered. Angel could feel it watching him. Often, he'd awaken from a nightmare and see those icy, unblinking orbs staring into his gold ones. They had barely spoken to each other since Illyria had asked for his "help" days and days ago. Angel didn't know how much longer he could continue to ignore the Old One's presence before the god decided it was bored with him and chose to kill him. Angel almost welcomed the oblivion.

It was the dreams that hurt him the most. The dreams where everyone he'd ever loved was gathered around a dinner table mouthing words he couldn't hear. He saw Buffy dancing in a swirl of white and Cordy playing with her chestnut brown hair. He saw Wesley cleaning his glasses and Fred reading her books. He saw Gunn polishing his hubcap axe. He saw Connor smiling with people who weren't his family and he saw Lorne having a drinking contest with Spike. Angel saw it all and he wondered what had happened to these people. Where were they now? The dreams made him feel lonely because every time he opened his eyes all he saw was Illyria.

Angel thought he was going crazy. It might have helped his mental state if he actually took the time to drink something other than whiskey, but the alcohol made the pain easier to bear. If he drank enough maybe the crushing agony would disappear and all the people he'd dreamed about would come back and he'd be happy again.

"Hey, Peaches, whatcha broodin' about now?"

He had heard that voice before. Cautiously, Angel opened his eyes and slowly sat up; letting the familiar scent invade his nostrils. Spike was sitting on the left side of the bed.

Angel smiled briefly, playing along with the dream he'd had so many times before. "I thought I told you I wanted to be alone."

The younger vampire snorted and reached for Angel's liquor glass. "Yeah, alone so you could mess up my bed and steal my whiskey."

"It's not your whiskey," Angel protested. "You stole it from Wolfram & Hart, my office if I'm not mistaken."

"Where's your proof?" Spike asked, downing the remaining contents of the glass and handing it back to Angel, who placed it on the night-stand.

"All the bottles are marked 'Property of Wolfram & Hart' and my name's on them."

"Possession's nine-tenths, mate."

Angel blinked. "No, it's not."

Spike rolled his eyes. "I wasn't being serious, luv. You need to loosen up!" he said, reaching over and shaking Angel's shoulder. "Stop brooding and go out an' enjoy life!"

"There's no reason to. Besides, I like it here."

The younger vampire let out a long, tortured sigh. "Okay, fine, we'll start small. Tell me a joke."

"I don't know any."

"Not even a knock-knock joke? That's pretty sad."

"Shut up, Spike."

"If only I could," he said wistfully. "You know me. I find silence boring." Angel shivered slightly as Spike's cool breath tickled his ear. "This is only the first layer, Peaches. Don't you wanna see how deep I go?"

"What? No!" Angel gasped, knowing that the dream was over. He bolted up in bed and saw Illyria gazing at him from across the room. Spike was gone. Why did Illyria still remain? It didn't seem fair.

"You've been sleeping a long time," it stated emotionlessly.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I had a nightmare."

"In my time, nightmares walked among us, walked and danced, skewering victims in plain sight, laying their fears and worst desires out for everyone to see. This to make us laugh."

"Laugh?" Angel repeated. Dream Spike had told him to laugh more. At least, that's what he thought Dream Spike had said. There had been something about a joke. And onions. Why would Dream Spike talk about onions?

"And now nightmares are trapped inside the heads of humans; pitiful echoes of themselves. I wonder whom they angered so to merit such a fate."

Thinking about it, Angel realized he like it better when Illyria didn't talk. Its words followed a rhyme scheme. They were poetic. Spike had been a poet. He had written all of his scribbles down in a little, leather journal. He used to read them to Drusilla every night and never showed them to anyone else but her. Once, Angelus's curiosity had overtaken him and he stole that journal and read every word in it. He remembered liking them, though he hadn't told Spike that until very recently. His boy had brushed off the compliment, claiming that Angel liked Barry Manilow, but he knew that Spike had been touched by his remark. Angel had even thought he'd seen a ghost of a smile fly across his face before they had gone back to insulting each other. In a way that hurt, because he knew Spike would never smile again.

"Yeah," Angel deadpanned, "the world sucks. Didn't we already cover that?"

"Why don't you leave?" Illyria asked this question bluntly. It wanted to know why Angel didn't simply kill himself. If only he'd had the guts for it.

If only...

"You could leave," Angel realized, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before. "Why don't you?"

"That's not possible."

"Of course it is. Are you telling me that the great Illyria is limited to only one dimension?"

Illyria opened its mouth to reply and that's when Angel stopped listening. He should probably have paid more attention to it, but he was suddenly fascinated with the demon's lips. They even moved differently then Spike's. Angel found himself wondering what it'd be like to kiss those lips. He remembered how Will's lips had felt soft and cool. Illyria's were probably hard and cold. It'd be like kissing one of Drusilla's dolls.

"Why stay in this world?" Angel found himself asking. "Why don't you go? You can go. Why don't you go?" _Yes, go, _he willed. _I won't have to look at you and see him if you're gone._

Quickly, Illyria moved to grab his neck. It lifted Angel up and pinned him against the wall. There was rage in the demon's eyes. Angel found himself wondering if Illyria would squeeze his neck until his eyes popped out, or if the god would simply rip his head off. The eye popping one would be more painful. Illyria would probably use that one.

Suddenly, it released him. The god looked disturbed, worried, almost fearful. It was even breathing. No, not breathing, gasping. "It's too small," it cried. "It's too small. I can't breathe." Illyria began pacing in a frenzied circle. "I can't live with these walls. I can't breathe. There's no room for anything real." It glared at Angel. "I should gut you where you stand. You challenged me. There's not enough space to open my jaws. My face is not my face. I don't know what it will say."

Will had hated being cooped up. Angelus had taken him on a boat once. Spike had started hyperventilating when he'd realized they would have to go below deck when the rain started. He hadn't even needed to breathe. What Will had needed was space. Space to run, space to hunt, space to live freer than he had ever lived as a mortal. He had hated cages, hated being confined. At that moment, the demon reminded him of his boy.

"Illyria," Angel ordered softly, "come with me."

The Old One looked at him strangely, but silently followed him out of Spike's apartment.

So much like him, Angel thought sadly. _So much, but not nearly enough._

The demon didn't speak a word to Angel until they had reached the destination; the complex's rooftop.

"I breathe easier," Illyria murmured.

"You don't need to breathe," replied Angel, repeating the words he had whispered to Spike so many decades ago.

Illyria ignored him, preferring the sound of its own voice to any decent conversation."All I am is what I am. I lived seven lives once..."

Angel imagined them chained to a wall. All of friends, all of his family trapped. He saw the Powers that Be laughing at him, telling him as soon as he positioned the bodies he would get to chose the order in which they would die. Drusilla would go next to Buffy. There was something oddly poetic about his greatest sin being chained next to his greatest love. Cordy would go next to Doyle, because, in his mind, he saw those two together even now. Fred would go in between Wesley and Gunn and Lorne would be beside them. It only seemed fair that Darla be placed next to their son and Spike would stand next to Connor. Angel could only imagine the arguments those three would have.

Darla would die first, there was no question about that. If for no other reason then she was the only one chained Angel could say he'd never truly loved. He had offered to die for her once, but not because he loved her, she was a selfish sacrifice. He'd once thought that saving Darla would be his redemption, but now he saw his redemption was Connor. _Connor._ He and Buffy would die last. Cordy would die just before them, Angel knew that much. But then the line got murkier. He would die after her? Doyle? Wesley? Dear, sweet, Fred? What of Drusilla? Would she die before Spike? After?

"...I fear in any other dimension in this form I'd be but prey to those I knew..."

Was that Illyria? It must have been, there was no one else on the rooftop.

"...I reek of humanity."

"Don't you dare insult Spike like that," he growled.

"Your world is so small. And yet you box yourselves in rooms even smaller. You shut yourselves inside - in rooms, in routines."

Inwardly, Angel grimaced. Had it only be several weeks since Spike had accused him of forgetting who he was? How long ago had Spike accused him of becoming a walking routine? Spike had hated order, hated schedules and cramped places. Hated being boxed, hated living in a Goddamn cage. Spike had wanted freedom. Spike had always wanted freedom, even when he'd been alive he had craved it - Angel shook his head. He couldn't think about that. Not now. Not again. Not ever again.

"There are things worse than walls, Illyria."

"No, there are not," the Old One sighed. "We are so weak."

"Yes," Angel whispered. "Yes, we are."


	4. Origin

**Author's Notes:** I know it took awhile, but I swear I'll get the next chapters up soon.

xxxxx

Angel really didn't have the slightest idea how to draw Spike. He'd done dozens of sketches, but they were all wrong. The cheekbones weren't defined enough or the hair was too long. Spike's eyes were difficult to pen so Angel had taken to sketching them closed. They still weren't right. He'd tried drawing Spike the way he looked after he'd killed his first Slayer. Angel remembered that night well. His boy had been drunk on the potent blood and the feeling of the fresh kill. He'd been so excited. He wouldn't shut up. He'd kept Angel up for hours telling him exactly what moves he used and the order in which he performed them.

Angel had smiled. He had taught Spike most of those moves. Even though he had a soul at the time of the Slayer's death, Will's glee had been infectious. Spike had even tried to get Angel to spar with him. He had wanted to show his Sire exactly how he'd killed the girl. Angelus would have done indulged the lad, but the guilt-ridden Angel had no desire to enact such an event. He had feigned tiredness. Spike had been disappointed. He'd made a joke about his Sire's old age catching up with him before hopefully asking if Angel would be up for a demonstration tomorrow. Angel had promised he would.

He had lied. He had left the next night. He hadn't even said goodbye before he'd fled Darla's wrath. She had been disgusted by the soul. _Darla. _He hadn't drawn her in a while. He'd have to find time for her after he'd finished with Will. That probably wouldn't be any time soon, judging from the discarded papers lying on the office floor.

He had gone back to Wolfram & Hart. There was an apocalypse in the making, after all. That is, if Lindsey wasn't lying. Angel didn't think he was.

Aside from analyzing the impending threat of yet another armageddon, Wesley had spent some time convincing Angel that it was best to be around people in times of grief. That was part of the reason Angel cut his leave of absence short. Funny, Angel didn't see any people around him currently, not even the imaginary ones.

Illyria had followed him. It was wandering around the building. Angel didn't know which floor. Strange how the Old One's whereabouts didn't seem to concern him as much as figuring out the best way to draw Spike's chin.

Indeed, he was so engrossed in his current project he didn't even hear his office door open.

"Angel?"

The vampire reluctantly tore his eyes away from his sketch and to the person standing before him.

"Wes," he greeted, "how've you been?"

"Better than you, evidently."

"Huh?"

Wesley gestured to the many, many failed sketches decorating the floor.

"Oh. I'm doing okay."

"I don't think you are." He bent down and picked up a half-sketched picture of Spike sleeping. "This was the report I sent you."

"Oh, sorry." Angel hadn't realized that he'd been drawing on the work he was supposed to be going over.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

About what? Oh, _that._

"Not really."

"You should."

Since when was Wes a touchy-feely guy? He really did sound concerned. Probably because the last time he had gotten into Obsessive Sketch Mode he'd gone kind of crazy and fired him, Gunn, and Cordy. But that was years ago. And it involved Darla and Dru. Totally different situation.

"I don't want to."

"Yes, I can see that, but..."

"No 'buts' Wes. I don't want to talk. End of discussion."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Wesley, placing the drawing on Angel's desk. "When Spike was alive you treated each other with indifference and contempt. Now that he's gone you're acting just like you did when..."

"I know, Wes."

"Why?"

That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?

"I don't know."

He really didn't.

"You don't know?" Wesley repeated carefully.

"I don't know, okay?" Angel snapped. "Now, drop it!"

"If you would just..."

"Um, excuse me?" a voice asked. "Could we come in?"

Both men turned their attention to the now opened office door.

Connor.

One day later

The half-breed was ignoring it. Not that this bothered the Old One. No, the god was merely inconvenienced by the absence of its favorite toy. The vampire was currently occupied with a boy called Connor. For whatever reason that boy had caused the half-breed's attentions to shift. No longer was he dwelling on the memory of the shell called Spike. His stench of grief was lessened because of the man-child. There was affection there, love. Love for a human child. Where had this emotion come from? Illyria had meticulously gone through Spike's memories. There was no Connor in them, no mention of the boy Angel seemed to care so much for. Of course, the shell's memories were imprecise. Spike had had nearly a century and half of life, or some form of it. So few of that time had been in Angel's presence, less than two decades. Many of Angel's experiences were beyond the shell's knowledge, yet the vampire's existence had warped the Spike's own.

It should have ripped out the half-breed's throat after his first trespass, after he had forsaken Illyria for the boy. _"Oh, that? That's Illyria." _The insubordination still echoed in the Old One's ears. The half-breed had dared address Illyria as "that" to the boy. Such disregard, such insurrection! Millennia ago, the world trembled at the very sound of its name. The footstools had screamed and the muck had bowed before its greatness and now? Now it was "that," named causally, coldly, thrown aside quickly in favor of the topic of a place called Stanford.

Why had the half-breed survived this insult? Illyria had taken intestines from screaming victims and worn them as decoration for less callousness then the vampire had given it. Why did Illyria allow him to continue functioning unmarred, unpunished? Perhaps it was because it found the half-breed stimulating. It could have been the shell's influence, but something about the vampire was intriguing. It was not his soul. No, such a useless object was of no concern to Illyria. It was his powerful madness that drew the Old One to him. The grief was so strong in scent that it very nearly caused Illyria to vomit, but it was that grief that made him tolerable. Angel's grief hazed hatred, as well as his fixation with the shell and its occupant, made him the closest thing to a worshipper it had left in this world. He was an amusing study, a toy that Illyria could not bring itself to ruin.

The toy would return to her as all of its toys had done in the past. It was all a matter of time and the question of when. Illyria was capable of great patience. It would wait. It was already finding other creatures to observe.

Earlier, Illyria had visited the girl, Fred, in her lab. She was not nearly as attractive as the Old One had first thought. She had begun leaking fluid from her eyes shortly after it had arrived. That wretched, sobbing girl would have made a poor shell, but at least she had acknowledged the Old One's greatness. The one before Illyria now, the one called Charles Gunn, had not even averted his gaze from the parchment he was reading.

"Do you mind leaving my office?" he murmured distractedly.

"Why?" Illyria cocked its head to the side. It was a request not an order. He would not be injured for that small iota of respect.

"Because your body suit is making me uncomforta..."

He ended his sentence there, his attention drawn back to the parchment. His eyes increased in size. Illyria recognized this as a human act for surprise.

"What is it?"

"I - I was just going over our contracts, re-reading the fine print. Angel... he signed something the day we took over Wolfram & Hart, something that includes us." Shaking his head, Gunn picked up the nearby communications instrument and pressed one of the dials. "Wes? I think you'd better get down here."

Three hours later

He had modified their memories. How or why, Illyria could not be certain of, but the half-breed had done it without his subjects' permission. They felt angry, betrayed. They wanted to hurt him.

This new development was amusing. Illyria had not previously thought Angel was capable of ruling. The Old One had seen him as a weak being, soft, ruled by his emotions, but now it saw how suited Angel was for the role of king. He properly served no master but his own ambition. This was how the half-breed's reign had endured. It was ending now, much to the despair of the vampire. He was powerless, helpless to the mercy of the people he had betrayed and to a mysterious glowing, yellow cube.

It was glorious.

Illyria nearly smiled. Angel would fall for his discretions. Perhaps the boy would fall with him. Yes, that would be most satisfying.

"You changed the world," whispered Wesley, glancing at the cube in his palm.

"What are you guys doing here?"

Illyria detected fear in the vampire's voice. Fear it had never seen the half-breed emit before. It was over the boy currently fighting a demon behind a cloaked wall. It was over the trinket in the human's hand. Fred, Gunn, Lorne, Wesley, they were all beside Illyria. Angel feared them. Feared their identical looks of disgust and loathing. Feared what they would do to him.

"You sold us out to Wolfram & Hart!" exclaimed Gunn, barely concealing his rage.

Angel's eyes had not left the cube holder's. "Be careful, don't..."

Wesley again examined the glowing object. "Is this your thirty pieces of silver?"

"Wes, give me the..."

Illyria saw the half-breed approaching the human. If Angel took the cube, than his servants' power would be weakened. Illyria desired to see the arrogant half-breed humbled for his earlier insubordination. It would pay for forsaking Illyria to be with the man-child. Moving quickly, it struck Angel with a force that sent him across the room. This action caused a feeling of immense satisfaction to envelop the Old One. It enjoyed causing the half-breed pain.

"They do not follow you any longer," Illyria declared, making no effort to mask its amusement.

"You changed the world," Wesley repeated.

"Why'd you do it, Angel?" asked Lorne. The clown was uncharacteristically solemn. Sadness choked its entire being.

"Connor's my son," Angel muttered, again approaching them, but wisely keeping his distance from Wesley. "I had to save him. I had no choice. I - "

A son? Illyria knew that half-breeds could not procreate. Why would the vampire state such an obvious lie?

"Your son?" shouted Fred, completely horrified. "Your son? You did this because - God, Angel! Did you trade him for - " Her eyes widened. "Everything that's happened since we took over Wolfram & Hart, everything that's happened to us, was Spike the price?"

"What? No! How could you - you don't understand," Angel said weakly.

"What's not to understand?" Wesley asked icily. "You betrayed us."

"You guys know me. You know I'd never..."

Gunn glared at him.

"That's the problem, Angel. We don't know you. I don't think we ever did."

"I'll explain everything, just - Wes, put the box down."

The half-breed's desperation was increasing. Illyria drank it in. It was so immensely satisfying, so intoxicating. The half-breed would break. Break, as he deserved to be broken.

"Why are you so afraid of it?" questioned Wesley. "Would bring back the past? Will it undo what you've done?"

"If it could don't you think I would've... It can't bring Spike back," said the half-breed. "It - it can't undo any of this."

"I'm willing to test that theory," said Gunn. "English?"

Wesley moved to throw the cube to the ground.

"No, don't!" Angel pleaded. "All of you - you have to trust me!"

"Trust you?" asked Lorne. "After all this?"

Fred shook her head. "We can't. Not anymore."

And Wesley dropped the cube.


	5. Time Bomb and The Girl in Question

**Author's Notes: **Sorry Big Bad, no Buffy or Andrew.

_xxxxx_

They cube had given them their memories back. Angel knew his friends now understood why he'd gone through with the mind wipe and erased Connor from their consciousness, but that didn't change anything, not really. They saw it as violation. They were right, Angel couldn't deny it. He had raped his friends. Not physically, of course, but mentally. Mind wipe, mind rape, it was all the same. He had Vail concoct false memories and replace the true ones with - well he wasn't exactly sure, but he'd heard there was lots of jenga involved. They barely talked to him anymore. Well, Wesley did, but that was probably more guilt than anything else. He'd lost his friends quite possibly forever, but he'd do it again. Why? Because Connor was in Stanford. He was the happy, intelligent, well-adjusted kid Angel had always wanted him to be, the happy, well-adjusted kid he deserved to be.

Connor had also gotten his memories back. He hadn't told Angel directly, but he knew. His son had chosen to go back to his fake family. He couldn't deal with the truth, or maybe he could but just preferred his fabricated magical life to reality. Another lie. Connor had once told him that a person couldn't be saved by a lie, yet Connor's entire existence had been based on them. For the rest of his life, Connor Angel: miracle child of two vampires, would go through life as Connor Reilly: son of two boring suburbanites.

That bothered Angel. A lot. He didn't want to give up his son, but it was for the best. Angel was like poison. He'd destroyed everything he'd ever touched, ruined every relationship he'd ever been in. He'd been alive for over two hundred and fifty years. That didn't mean much. He was still alone. No friends, no family, just - Illyria.

Angel was watching the god now. It had not moved from the spot Wesley had - well he wasn't quite sure what Wesley had done. He had shot some type of ray gun at Illyria that had taken most of its powers. It was no longer invincible. It could be killed.

Wesley had told him it was best to do away with Illyria while it was defenseless.

_"Illyria's a threat to us, Angel. He must be destroyed."_

_"It, Wes."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Illyria's not a 'he' it's an 'it'."_

_"Call him whatever you like,_ _that doesn't change the simple fact: Illyria must be destroyed."_

_"I know."_

Did he really? Angel couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure of much these days. Illyria was perfectly willing and able to slaughter them all, yet Angel couldn't kill it. Why? Because it resembled Spike? Maybe. Angel couldn't say he was in the most stable place right now, but he needed Illyria because - even he didn't know. He knew it was insane, but killing Illyria would be like killing Spike all over again. By all means, that train of thought made absolutely no sense. Illyria had tried to kill them and yet... the problem with Angel was that he was too attached. Some part of him still hoped that, deep down, Spike was in there hiding inside the Old One and that maybe, if enough time passed, his boy would come back... Angel shook his head. It made no sense. He was officially insane. Not like this type of thing hadn't happened before, but still, it really was quite jarring.

Illyria still hadn't moved. Angel briefly wondered if it would spend the entire night on the floor. It didn't want any help and Angel couldn't say that he was anxious to pull it to its feet. He should have left the demon alone. It was getting late. He had work to do tomorrow and - he'd leave, but only after Illyria got up.

He could wait.

_One week later_

"Boss? Hello? Boss?"

Angel sighed. All he wanted to do was get into his office and finish his paperwork. Why did his secretary insist on bothering him? "What is it, Harmony?"

"You've got messages from Italy. Some loser Goran demon named Capo di Famiglia got himself whacked on a business trip there and his family wants the body. You need to send someone over there and..."

"Harmony?" Angel interrupted. "Wolfram & Hart has an Italian branch, right? Let them handle it."

"There's also the Buffy thing."

At once, Angel became concerned. Was she hurt? Dead? No, she couldn't be. He had some guy keeping tabs on her, he would have phoned if anything was wrong. Then again, last time Angel checked, his source was in the hospital...

"What Buffy thing?" Angel asked quickly. "Is she in trouble?"

"Well, I'm not sure. She was recently spotted hanging around some guy called the Immortal. If that means anything."

"What!"

It was worse than he'd thought.

"Hey, Boss, don't shoot the messenger..."

"I can't believe her!" Angel ranted. "The Immortal? She really does have the worse taste in - Harmony, send her an e-mail telling her that the Immortal once slept with Darla and Dru. That'll make her come to her senses."

"What?"

"Just do it."

His voice left no room for questioning.

"Um, sure, whatever. Oh, by the way, Illyria's in your office."

As if Angel didn't have enough problems, now he'd have to deal with the Old One's questions pertaining to the lunar cycles.

"Thanks, Harmony," he said wearily.

_Thirty seconds later_

"Illyria?" Angel called, taking a quick look around. He didn't see the demon anywhere and he seriously doubted it was hiding under any of the furniture. He couldn't say it was disappointed by the Old One's absence. Maybe now he could finally get some work done.

Slowly, Angel walked toward his desk. He noticed his leather chair was facing the wall. He hadn't left it like that, had he?

Suddenly, the seat swiveled around.

"Finally! I've been waiting forever, Peaches. Long lunch?"

Spike?

Angel took a step back. He was finally cracking up. He wasn't seeing him. He couldn't be. Spike was dead. This was a lie, a delusion. He wasn't dreaming again, was he? Was it a ghost? Why didn't Ghost Spike have a scent? He should've. Everything had a scent, everything but...

"Illyria."

"No," the demon said slowly, pushing itself off the chair and sauntering toward Angel. "I'm Spike, remember?"

"No," Angel whispered, "you're not." How was the god doing this? How could it manipulate itself so perfectly? It had Spike down to a tee. That movement, that voice...

"Sure I am. Anyway, I was thinking, Peaches, we should go out. How 'bout you leave work early? We'll go to a bar. Get you liquored up good and proper. Maybe take in a show, flirt with some girls..."

"Stop it," Angel growled. This was a mockery, an insult to his Childe. The demon was playing a game. He wanted no part in it.

"Alright, fine, we won't talk to the women. Jeesh, what's your problem? You used to like bar whores, if I remember correctly."

"Illyria..." Angel warned.

"No, I'm Spike, we covered that already. So, how come girls aren't good enough for ya anymore?" Illyria laughed Spike's laugh. Angel could have killed it for such a trespass. "I knew you were a poofer underneath all that hair gel! Then again, that should have been a big hint... Tell ya what, Gramps, I'll throw you a bone. I'll be your deviant just this once, let you get it out of your system, then we're going to the movies."

The demon was standing far too close to him. Clearly, Illyria, like Spike, had never heard of the Bubble of Personal Space. Angel should have left his office, turned away, done something besides stand there, but Illyria looked like Spike. Angel couldn't tear his eyes away from the imitation.

"Not like dog girl's putting out and you need the exercise. It'll be fun." Illyria dared to run its hand down Angel's chest. "C'mon, Sire, don't be that way..."

As soon as that title passed Illyria's lips Angel snapped out of his trance. This thing wasn't Spike. It had no right to use that term with him.

"No!" he shouted, pushing Illyria away.

"You dare strike me?" Illyria asked, shoving Angel back. The vampire was propelled across the room. He hit the wall. Hard. He thought he felt the plaster crumble from under his back. "You dare raise your hands against me?"

The Old One's voice was coming out of Spike's mouth. It was wrong, unnatural. The eyes held not a hint of warmth and its voice was shaking with demonic fury. Illyria's fury; so unlike the fury of his boy. Spike had been volatile, his anger had always been passionate, never cold, never calculating like Illyria's.

"Change back," Angel ordered, climbing shakily to his feet.

"It's better this way, Sire..." It was back to using Spike's voice, all trace of anger forgotten.

"I'm not your Sire!"

The demon's use of that word made him sick.

"Your grief hangs off you like rotting flesh," Illyria murmured, it's voice and features reverting back to its natural ones. "I could no longer tolerate the stench."

"So you did this?" he demanded.

"I became what you wanted. He meant a great deal to you, didn't he?"

"You can't possibly know what he 'meant' to me, Illyria."

"I know what you meant to him. You were his father, his master, his god. You were his companion, his teacher, his enemy, his friend. The names he called you echo through my mind. Daddy! Master! God! They are but titles. Screaming titles that parade in pain-drenched festivals before my eyes. Do you know which title screams the mightiest, half-breed? Sire. Memories of blood and women all surrounded by that screaming, relentless word."

Angel knew about voices. For over a century, he'd heard the sounds of his victims. Their screams, their pleads. He remembered how the children had squealed like little pigs, some had even messed themselves before he was through with them. Their cries used to make him want to kill himself. Strange how their voices had never cut as deeply as the tender ones. Darla, who had whispered eternity into his ear. Drusilla, who had called him "Daddy" as enthusiastically as any daughter. Spike, who had sung with him; crude, drinking songs brought on by too much ale and far too many hours spent in taverns. After Angel had gotten his soul, it had taken decades to block out their voices in favor of the louder ones.

"I have no desire to become Spike, half-breed. I merely wish to understand why these words continue even after the shell's destruction. Why do they not cease their cycle?"

The demon seemed genuinely curious. Pity Angel didn't want to be part of its learning experience.

"You can never be him, Illyria. Don't try to be."

With that, Angel walked out of his office. He was suddenly feeling very tired. Maybe he would take the rest of the day off. Wolfram & Hart could manage well enough without him.


	6. Not Fade Away

**Author's Note: **Well, this is it, the last chapter. I know it should be longer, but, truthfully, I've been losing interest in this story some time and was too lazy to make it longer. Which is probably obvious to you guys due to the recent short chapters I've posted. Only my personal vow to never leave any of my stories incomplete made me stick this thing out to the bitter end. In conclusion: thanks for all the reviews. I don't deserve them. Oh, and Roony? I completely agreed with you when you said you liked this story better as a one-shot.

_xxxxx_

It had been hours since Angel had told them of his plan to take down the Circle of the Black Thorn, the Senior Partners' instrument on Earth. His friends still didn't trust him, not completely, but they agreed to go along with it. Angel didn't know why. They were giving up their lives for this plan, this mission. That's what it was all about, right? Fighting the good fight? Angel wasn't too sure anymore. He needed someone to tell him. He needed people to keep him focused, to remind him what it meant to be a hero. Hell, what it meant to be a man. First there had been Buffy, then there had been Cordelia and Connor and - they were gone. It didn't matter anymore.

There was only one thing left to exist for and that was the fight. Screw the Powers That Be, screw Wolfram & Hart, Angel would be master of his own destiny. He was through being a puppet.

He had told his friends to go out, enjoy their last day, before the night came. It would likely to be their last day alive. What were they doing? What should he be doing? Tying up loose ends? Writing goodbye letters? He hadn't even spoken to Buffy. He hadn't even called her to say - it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

Angel was in Spike's apartment with Illyria. He wasn't with Connor, or Cordy, or Buffy. He was with Illyria. It didn't seem right. His last day alive and he was with the thing that had destroyed his boy, destroyed the only good thing Angel had left. Did that count as irony?

"You want to be with Spike."

"No, Illyria," Angel sighed. "I just want my life back."

"Which one?"

"All of them, none of them, I'm not sure anymore."

"I could assume his shape, make him come alive again this once for you. But you would never ask me to."

It sounded almost resentful.

"Is that what you want, Illyria? To be Spike?"

"Do not presume such things, half-breed. I merely wish to further my study of humanity."

"Why?"

Illyria looked away. "I am unsure."

That wasn't an answer. It wasn't even the beginning of an answer, but it would have to do.

"Do it. Be Spike."

Illyria's eyes found his again. They were questioning. It wondered why Angel would agree to something he'd vehemently protested less than a week ago. Angel didn't even know the answer to that. He just knew he had to see his boy one last time.

"Just for a minute. Don't talk. Just..."

"I understand."

_No, _Angel thought sadly, _you don't. You can't_

In seconds, Illyria's body suit and ice eyes vanished. The unnatural pallor and blue tinge were gone from its skin. It looked like Spike. For a brief instant, Angel could almost pretend it was his Childe sitting on the bed, not a demon wearing his skin.

"Will?"

It really did look like him. Like he looked on his last day alive. His hair was perfectly bleached and gelled. His clothes were blue jeans and a black tee shirt. He didn't have his duster, but Angel didn't care. It was Spike. Right down to those piercing blue eyes... Angel turned away. There was still no scent. It was Illyria, not Spike. Angel knew that and, yet, he still needed to pretend, if only for a little while.

"God, I can't believe you're really here. Well, you're not really here, but... I should say something. I don't know what, but I - I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I wanted to, Spike. I really did. You thought I hated you. You blamed me for making you into a monster. I suppose I did, but, God, I don't know, okay? I don't know what to say, what to do..."

Angel knew he was rambling. Spike would never have let him ramble. He'd have interrupted with some snide remark. Illyria Spike hadn't said a word.

"You're dead, ya know? You're dead and I killed you. I asked you to stay, remember? After you became corporeal again you were all set to go to Europe, but I stopped you and you stayed. I knew you wouldn't have gone to Buffy, I didn't ask you to stay out of jealousy. I asked you to stay because I missed you. You were my boy. We shared so much... I hated you. I loved you. I didn't want you to go, so you stayed. You stayed and you died. I killed you, Will. I didn't mean to. I really didn't... I missed you and I think you missed me, so you stayed. You died because you stayed."

His manner of speech was quick, almost frenzied. In his nervousness, Angel had begun to pace up and down the length of the tiny room. He was talking and moving so fast he doubted Illyria was still following what he was saying. He didn't care. The words he spoke weren't for Illyria's ears.

"I haven't been right since you died. I haven't been right since Romania. You were - annoying, Spike. You were an insolent brat. You were stubborn and stupid and generally a pain in my ass. I should be happy you're gone, but I'm not. I feel cold and empty and I don't know why! You were my Childe, Spike. My boy, my friend, my - you annoyed me. A lot. I hated you, I really did, but I can't - I can't stop thinking about you! I made you, I killed you. You're in my head. I hear your voice all the time and I can't stop thinking about you because you won't shut up!"

The demon was still silent. Angel wanted so much to hear Spike's voice, his true voice, and, yet, he didn't want Illyria to respond. That would break the lie.

"I look at Illyria and all I can see is you. I look at Wes and all I can see is the man who took my son. I look at Gunn and all I can see is a lawyer. I look at Lorne and see and friend I'll make into a murderer before the night is through. I look at Fred and see Drusil - Drusilla. I see Drusilla. I never realized how alike they are. Both innocent and pure and so very, very kind. Drusilla, she was so frail, I laughed when I crushed her. I always found it weird that you never hated me for that."

Angel stopped pacing, and, for the first time during his long rant, he looked at Illyria Spike.

"How come you never hated me? You were innocent once, Will. I remember when you wore glasses and your hair was honey brown. I remember your first kill and how excited you were when you used that railroad spike. I remember your jokes and how you used to laugh. I - I killed you. I damned you. I destroyed you. You're gone. You're not coming back and I can't, I can't... I'm sorry, Spike. I am so sorry. And if we're going to die tonight, I want you to know that."

Angel put his hands on either side of Spike's face and leaned over to kiss what remained of his boy. He didn't know why he did it. Illyria wasn't Spike - not that Angel would have kissed Spike had he been there. Their relationship had never been based on such acts of intimacy.

The kiss was gentle, painful, mournful; an empty apology to someone who no longer existed. The demon didn't respond to his action and, when Angel felt how cold those lips were, a lone tear trickled out of his eye and down his cheek.

Breaking the embrace, Angel stepped away from Illyria.

"Change back," he ordered hoarsely, his voice shaking with unsaid emotion. "Now."

Illyria was silent for a moment before murmuring, "As you wish." When the Old One had reverted back to its blue form it asked: "Do you desire to explore this contact further?"

Angel shook his head. "It wasn't that kind of kiss."

He had to leave. Angel had wasted enough time with this creature. He had other concerns besides corpses and memories. He had another person to say goodbye to.Without another word, Angel got up and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To see my son."

_Five hours later_

They had done it. They had destroyed the Circle of the Black Thorn.

Most had survived. That in itself was a marvel. Some, like Gunn, were more wounded than others. Others, like Lorne and Lindsey, were gone completely. The remaining ones looked proud, resigned to their fate. It was odd how such weak creatures could have such strength. Wesley and Fred where linking hands. Her mate wanted her to leave.

"Bit late for that now, Wesley," she replied tersely.

They stared at the approaching army. Yes, the Wolf, the Ram, and Hart would have their revenge.

Angel had survived thus far, and Illyria had an unnatural desire to not see him die. It was the shell that was affecting it so. Perhaps it would be a blessing to be vanquished this night before Spike's feelings could infect it further. It had been god to a god, now it was a foot soldier in a half-breed's army. How far it had fallen, and yet Illyria would not leave. It had nowhere to go. Its place was with its brothers and sisters. What greater way to rejoin them then to fall in battle?

Illyria looked to the half-breed. He was smiling.

"What now, vampire?"

"We fight."

"That's not much of a plan," gasped Gunn. "How 'bout giving us the specifics?"

The demon horde was almost in striking distance. Still, the half-breed was calm.

"Well, I kinda want to slay the dragon. Let's go to work."

And the sword fell.


End file.
